Going Postal

the horse’s back and tried not to think about what this ride was doing to his kidneys.
    Time passed.
    The second tower went by, and Boris dropped into a canter. Sto Lat was clearly visible now; Moist could make out the city walls and the turrets of the castle.
    He’d have to jump off, there was no other way. Moist had tried out half a dozen scenarios as the walls loomed, but nearly all of them involved haystacks. The one that didn’t was the one where he broke his neck.
    But it didn’t seem to occur to Boris to turn aside. He was on a road, the road was straight, it went through this gateway, and Boris had no problem with that. Besides, he wanted a drink.
    The city streets were crowded with things that couldn’t be jumped or trampled, but there was a horse trough. He was only vaguely aware of something falling off his back.
    Sto Lat wasn’t a big city. Moist had once spent a happy week there, passing a few dud bills, pulling off the Indigent Heir trick twice, and selling a glass ring on the way out, not so much for the money as out of a permanent fascination with human deviousness and gullibility.
    Now he staggered up the steps of the town hall, watched by a crowd. He pushed open the doors and slammed the mailbag on the desk of the first clerk he saw.
    “Mail from Ankh-Morpork,” he growled. “Started out at nine, so it’s fresh, okay?”
    “But it’s only just struck a quarter past ten! What mail?”
    Moist tried not to get angry. He was sore enough as it was.
    “See this hat?” he said, pointing. “You see it? That means I’m the postmaster general of Ankh-Morpork! This is your mail! In an hour, I’m going back again, understand? If you want mail de-livered to the big city by two p.m.—ouch—make that three p.m., then put it in this bag. These ”—he waved a wad of stamps under the young man’s nose—“are stamps! Red ones two-pence, black ones a penny. It’ll cost ten—ow—eleven pence per letter, got it? You sell the stamps, you give me the money, you lick the stamps and put them on the letters! Express Delivery guaranteed! I’m making you acting postmaster for an hour. There’s an inn next door. I’m going to find a bath. I want a cold bath. Really cold. Got an ice house here? As cold as that. Colder. Ooooh, colder. And a drink, and a sandwich, and, by the way, there’s a big black horse outside. If your people can catch him, please put a saddle on him, and a cushion, and drag him around to face Ankh-Morpork. Do it!”

    I T WAS ONLY A HIP BATH , but at least there was an ice house in the city. Moist sat in a state of bliss among the floating ice, drinking a brandy, and listened to the commotion outside.
    After a while, there was a knock at the door, and a male voice inquired: “Are you decent, Mr. Postmaster?”
    “Thoroughly decent, but not dressed,” said Moist. He reached down beside him and put his wingéd hat on again. “Do come in.”
    The mayor of Sto Lat was a short, birdlike man, who’d either become mayor very recently and immediately after the post had been held by a big fat man, or thought that a robe that trailed several feet behind you and a chain that reached to the waist was the look for civic dignitaries this year.
    “Er…Joe Camels, sir,” he said nervously. “I’m the mayor here…”
    “Really? Good to meet you, Joe,” said Moist, raising his glass. “Excuse me if I don’t get up.”
    “Your horse, er, has run way after kicking three men, I’m sorry to say.”
    “Really? He never usually does that,” said Moist.
    “Don’t worry, sir, we’ll catch him, and anyway, we can let you have a horse to get back on. Not as fast, though, I daresay.”
    “Oh dear,” said Moist, easing himself into a new position among the floating ice. “That’s a shame.”
    “Oh, I know all about you , Mr. Lipwig,” said the mayor, winking conspiratorially. “There were some copies of the Times in the mailbag! A man who wants to be up and doing, you are. A man full of vim, you are! A man after my own heart, you are! You aim for the moon, you do! You see your target and you go for it hell for leather, you do! That’s how I does business, too! You’re a go-getter, just like me! I’d like you to put it here, sir!”
    “What where?” said Moist, stirring uneasily in his rapidly-becoming-lukewarm tub. “Oh.” He shook the proffered hand. “What is your business, Mr. Camels?”
    “I make parasols,” said the mayor. “And it’s about time that clacks